Buried With Our Past
by EmmaJ1996
Summary: "The reality that he really is simply standing there, an image you'd thought you'd never see again. The reality that the image looks so natural, so bloody normal, two years later, is almost unbearable, all-consuming, agonising." - Harry returns from New York, two years later.


**Buried With Our Past **

_For anyone doing exams right now. I feel your pain. Vividly. And for everyone else, because we're not really coping without Harry. _

* * *

You're not falling in love all over again.

This isn't love at first sight, or any other romantic cliché you deign to think of.

To fall in love again implies that there was once a time when you stopped. A time when you had enough control over your emotions to just stop loving him. A time when you had enough authority in your own life to tell it what and when (and more specifically, who) to love.

But if that were the case, your feet wouldn't be glued to the floor at seeing him walk through the door. You wouldn't instinctively tense at the sight of him talking to Jack, the sound of his voice rippling through your every fibre, as if it's the most normal thing in the world. You wouldn't be hiding in Leo's office to avoid any and all contact with him.

But you are.

Because the reality of him being here is too much to handle right now. The reality that he really is simply standing there, an image you'd thought you'd never see again. The reality that the image looks so natural, so bloody normal, two years later, is almost unbearable, all-consuming, agonising.

It's like you're flying and falling all at once. Unsure how to feel, to react, whether to fast forward, or pause and rewind. Or just live in the moment and press play.

Even Leo appears confused by it all, scratching his head, as if perplexed, as if he can't quite grasp the circumstances unfolding before him.

The image of Harry Cunningham in the Lyell Centre once more. Same continent, same country, same city, same town, same road, same building, same room.

And what really messes you up - he appears in no hurry to leave. A thought which would have once comforted you beyond belief, brought you to the edges of consciousness and allowed you to fall asleep at night. But gradually, your pragmatism got the better of you, and the ideal of Harry ever returning to you became less of a dream, and more of a nightmare, keeping you awake at night, hindering you from entering the realms of your subconscious.

And the visual of him, not in any hurry to leave, is pretty daunting. In fact, his briefcase has found its way onto your old chair, where you used to sit, whilst he leans against what used to be your desk, as if reclaiming lost territory, a territory which, in all fairness, he lost a long time ago, when you stole his desk, his coffee mug, his pens, and humbly, he stole nothing.

Except your Friday evenings, numerous staplers (which he lost repeatedly), and most significantly, your heart.

And in stealing your heart, he broke down the carefully constructed barriers which defined you every day since your mother died, and your father turned out to be a waste of space, and left a hole in your heart, an empty space tugging inside you. In stealing your heart, you gradually learnt to close that gap, that void, because in needing to be closer to him, you gradually learnt to cope without being close to your parents. Since you met him, you've always felt an imperceptible need to be closer to him, not in the hope that one day, he would stop stealing your heart, but that one day, you would steal his.

A day that never actually bothered to come.

The only day that did come, was the day that he broke your heart. The day that, after eight bloody years of stealing it, possessing it, cradling it, like some careless clumsy puerile child, he dropped it. And it broke.

And then, instead of hiding the damage as a child would, or deciding upon an ill-advised, botched attempt to fix it, he did the Harry thing, and sodded off to New York. If ever there was a more ironic case of déjà vu, it was this. Five years later, and history repeats itself, another one of God's cruel jokes.

Another professorship in America, another fight in the science room, another god-awful non-descript goodbye that you'd regretted ever since. No chance to say sorry. And, as is often the case in everyday life, no second chances. No chance to choose the 'pause and rewind' option. Because it doesn't exist.

So, out of the pair of you, so inexplicably proud and stubborn, for reasons still unknown, neither found it within yourselves to apologise, to make that first contact. To return spare sets of keys. And long-forgotten items of clothing that belonged to the other.

And so he left, without another word between you.

And so it seems, nothing has changed. It's two years on, and whilst you have an overwhelming sense of relief that he's _here_, and you're seeing him again, and he looks good (_really _good), and you can't help feeling that sense of regret, that sense of guilt, deep inside, you're still angry. Because you never got that chance to freeze him out, and to not speak to him for days on end, because he left the country, the _continent_. He left sooner rather than later to avoid a fight. And in avoiding a fight, he avoided a hell of a lot else too.

But he's okay, he's well. And nothing has changed. He's still the same Harry, albeit dressed slightly smarter, and just that little bit older, and wearing glasses, which you're almost certain he doesn't actually need, if not only to give the impression of being marginally more distinguished than his American counterparts.

Knowing him, he's probably got a Newton's Cradle on his desk, (not too dissimilar to the same executive toy you bought Leo last year as a Secret Santa gift) or some model of a spitfire or a Handley Page Victor or a Hurricane Hawker. (It was only a matter of time before you remembered some of the planes from the numerous air shows he took you to over the years.)

Then again, the thought that he has colleagues that he can take to air shows now is nauseating. Colleagues that he can call friends, or can kiss to shut up, or can call at 1am and know they'll pick up and bring round a bottle of wine, or cry over when they're on a life support machine.

Your subconscious is playing tricks on you again, because it controls your every move without you realising. It controls your ears, and allows you to be deafened to every word Leo says, as he raps on the desk in front of you to bring you out of your inertia. It controls your hands, as you tangle your fingers into the Newton's Cradle on his desk, threatening to ruin the conservation of momentum upon his desk, until he swats your hand away, frowning at you. It controls your eyes, because no matter how many times you tell yourself you don't want to look at Harry, don't want to believe he is actually here, your subconscious drags your eyes ever so slowly over his body, raking them over every feature, drinking him in as your gaze lingers on him.

"Nikki?" he says loudly, pulling you out of your reverie once more, as you find him glaring in front of you, "Oh, come on, let's go say hello," he sighs, groaning as he gets up from his chair, a trivial gesture that makes you smirk all the same.

"Sorry, crime scene," you shrug your shoulders at him, as you pull on your coat, trying to sound as genuine as intrinsically possible.

"No cases have been called in, though. It's been quiet for days," he replies, seemingly confused, although you suspect that he knows more than you're letting on.

"Precisely," you mutter, opening the door, immediately gaining Harry's attention, who turns his head in curiosity, his eyes widening as his eyes come to rest on you. Jack trails off, falling silent, as his eyes flick from you to Harry and back again, trying to discern the expression on both your faces.

"Nikki," he breathes, although he's still audible, even from the other side of the room. He shuffles awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as he kicks his foot at an imaginary speck of dust on the floor. As much as you hate to admit it, you're still innately attracted to him, how could you not be? You feel your face flush slightly as his eyes languidly graze over you.

And as much as you've chastised him, again and again and again, repeating the same conversations over and over in your head, for being _such a coward_, for leaving without saying goodbye, without saying sorry, without saying those three little words just once, you're exactly the same.

You're as much a coward as he is.

Because you can't even bring yourself to look him in the eyes. Like there is some unquantifiable amount of shame in speaking to him now. Because if you were going to speak to him, you really should have done it two years ago. When you actually had the kind of relationship where you actually spoke to each other. Now, it's nothing.

You pick up the phone, and instead of Harry being on the other end of the line, there's silence. You open the door, and instead of Harry being there, there's nobody. (Or occasionally, Leo, if you both have the presence of mind to organise something.) You sit at your desk, and instead of Harry sitting opposite you, it's Leo. Because in all reality_, how was it remotely possible to stay at his desk?_

You're having another one of those moments again, allowing your subconscious to engulf your awareness, because your sight doesn't feel it relevant to tell you that Harry is walking over to you. You only become awareness of his presence once he is right in front of you, barely a few inches away. You feel yourself tense automatically at his close proximity, cursing yourself internally for allowing yourself to be affected by him, even after all this time.

"Nikki," he repeats, his voice low, stirring something inside of you, opening a whole bottle of emotions you capped two years ago. Then again, it's not exactly surprising that he can awaken your feelings for him so easily – they never really went to sleep. They stayed like you, awake at night, biting, just to emphasise your loneliness just that little bit more, permeating every thought, infiltrating your mind, your heart, your very core.

"I have to get to a crime scene," you say coldly, and you're almost shocked at the strength and sullenness in your voice, if not slightly impressed for holding it together so well. You certainly don't expect your legs to march past him and out the door, but they do. You almost get a sense of empowerment, for doing exactly what he did to you two years ago, but when you hear his footsteps behind you, it's somewhat less notable. It also doesn't help that both Jack and Clarissa are intrigued by his significance, as you see them whispering to Leo out of the corner of your eye.

You hasten your stride, not _exactly_ sure of where you're actually going. You realise too late that your emphatic exit will be in vain if you don't decide on a location to march off to. Your 'crime scene' excuse will soon be null and void, because you certainly didn't have the forethought to grab your keys on your way out, so unless you're planning on effectively jacking your own car, he _is _going to catch up with you at some point.

It's then that you realise you can't hear his footsteps anymore. You know you'll kick yourself for doing it, but you can't resist turning back, just once, to see where he has gone, to see if he's still there. Sure enough, he is, a few metres back, leaning against the wall, arms folded, an image that looks _so damn casual_, so _ordinary_, you could forget he'd ever left. You roll your eyes at him, because you know exactly what he means. You know he's making a point. After all this time, he still knows you well enough to recognise you're not leaving anytime soon.

"Thought you were in a hurry," he smirks, propping himself up slightly, shifting to get more comfortable, not moving from his spot against the wall, "You forgot these," he continues, holding up your car keys on a solitary finger, jingling them for effect. You're not sure whether to take them or not. What exactly are you planning to do with them? Keep up the pretence that there's a metaphorical crime scene? _He's leaning against the wall._ He's not in any hurry, he's intrigued. If you go for a scenic drive for a couple of hours, you can bet your life he'll still be there when you get back.

"You haven't changed," he says suddenly, interrupting your internal unease, "I mean, you're still a terrible liar," he clears his throat, explaining what he means, and if you didn't know him better, you'd swear you saw the tiniest of blushes creep over his cheeks.

_You haven't changed. _

You both know the subtext of that sentence. Although it's not a sentence, it's a question. A question that neither of you will ever have the courage to ask, because the sheer possibility that things have changed is just that _little_ bit more terrifying than you'll ever admit. It's a silent question, but a question all the same, that requires a silent answer. You smile, giving him the shyest of nods, your hair falling into your face slightly, quite aptly hiding the blush that matches his. Letting him know that you haven't changed.

"Neither have you," you murmur to the floor, briefly glancing up, and oh, he's watching you. He's _still _watching you. You're compelled to keep watching him, like he'll disappear the minute you look away. It defies the expectations of a protracted look, because it's not awkward or tense or uncomfortable – it's just everything. Every emotion that has frazzled your mind for the past two years condensed into one gaze.

"I have," he replies, and you can literally feel your face fall, "I got glasses," he gestures to his face, in case his statement needed further clarification, his wit imposing the biggest smile onto your face, as a surge of relief washes over you, cleansing you from all your fear.

You walk towards him, closing the distance between you, before reaching out to him, and taking the glasses off his nose, holding them up to your own eyes to check, confirming your suspicions when you realise you can see through the lenses perfectly, your vision not blurred by the apparent strength of the lenses.

"I knew it," you grin at him, twiddling the frames in your hands, "They're fake. Why are you wearing them? Was it to make you feel astute and intelligent?"

"I _am_ astute and intelligent," he retorts.

"Oh, and I'm sure you're also mature and magnanimous?" you stifle a laugh, trying to cover your amusement as a yawn, as he frowns at you.

"Always," he says solemnly after a long pause, causing you to giggle, as you mirror his actions, one side sagging against the wall, head resting against its coldness, arms folded, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it was some sort of poetic justice," he sighs, running a hand through his hair, his tell-tale sign of discomfort at entering into unchartered territory.

"What do you mean?" you frown, trying to nestle into the unforgiving coolness of the wall, like a child seeking security during a bedtime story.

"I don't know. I thought, you know, a clean break would be good. So I'm in New York, and trying to be, like, a better version of _myself_, right? So I'm dressing _differently_, and going to bed at a reasonable hour, and the glasses – for a while, it gave me that sense of you know, wisdom and knowledge and-"

"Astuteness?" you offer as he falters.

"Yeah," he smiles at your suggestion, that lopsided grin that used to send a spark right through your very core. The lopsided grin that _still_ sends that spark through every fibre.

"Anyway," he continues, "And one day, I looked in the mirror, and the glasses, the tie, it just reminded me of someone. My dad. He had these out-dated prescription glasses, right? And he'd hardly ever wear them, because he was so stubborn, he'd always insist that he didn't need them. But whenever he told me off, or was trying to teach me something, he'd wear the glasses. To exude that air of confidence, of authority, I guess. It's like he was someone else, because once he took off the glasses, it's like, I don't know-"

"Like he'd taken off his mask," you nod at him, understanding, smiling softly, envisaging a small Harry being scolded for the smallest of things, or sharing quality time with the man who he revered so much, the man who he admired.

"Yeah," he replies softly, the single syllable catching slightly in his throat, "And that's when I realised, I'm exactly the same. The clothes, the glasses – it's all fake, trying to be someone I'm so not. Like the glasses were a warped microcosm of my own life. Like they represented, you know, everything that was wrong with me," his voice tails off, gradually drawing to no more than a whisper.

"There's nothing wrong with you, Harry," you chide gently, trying to offer some reassurance.

"Really?" his voice is hoarse now, and his gaze upon you is almost pained, "Every day for the past two years, I've wondered why. Why I never had the courage to stay. Why I never had the courage to come back. I mean, why? How?"

"How what?"

"How did I ever leave you?" he mutters, cupping your face in his hands, his eyes boring into you, "This. How did I leave this behind? I mean, I appreciate the sentiment, Nikki, but there must be something intrinsically wrong with me, because you know, I left us in such a bad place-"

"Oh, will you get over yourself? I mean, ten years, Harry, and you're still as clueless as when we first met. All this talk of us, and you're still _somehow_ managing to miss the _blindingly_ obvious-"

"Which is?" he wonders out loud, causing her to sigh at you, and straighten up.

"You're _here_."

"Ten years too late, mind," he mumbles, looking at you under hooded eyelids, as if through guilt, as if seeking some sort of absolution. You're not wholly sure if he's aware that his hands are still cradling your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks, languidly dragging over your jaw.

"Actually," you smile, stepping closer, so you're right up in his personal space, "I'd say you're right on time."

"For what?" he practically _growls_ at you, his voice low, as he pulls you closer to him, encircling your waist with the safety of his solid arms, as he presses your forehead to yours.

"For this," you whisper against his lips, his mouth finding yours as you try in vain to suppress a moan. His lips are gentle, teasing, not giving you enough pressure to be fully satisfied, so you loop your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you, as he pulls you flush against him. Your kisses become bolder, almost desperate, as you cling to him with such visceral passion that you're certain you'll bruise his shoulders.

You stagger backwards, as he pushes you against the wall, the pain of your head against the glass window eradicated by the sensation of his fingers dancing across your waist, one hand leaving your side to entangle itself in your hair.

You're both wholly aware that you haven't really sorted anything out. You haven't ascertained why he's back, or whether he's staying, or when he figured out exactly what makes you tick, but it's too hard to focus on. Because right now, you honestly couldn't care less about the whys or the ifs or the whens-

He's here.

And in reality, that's all you really care about. That's all you ever cared about.

"Oi! Keep it PG-13, guys. Have some respect for the dead," you're suddenly interrupted by Jack's voice through the glass, as he thumps repeatedly on the window pane with his fist, grinning wildly. The door buzzes and you have no choice to break apart now, as Jack pokes his head around the door.

"Oh, come on; don't look at me like I'm encroaching here. It's a free corridor, after all," he smirks at your dazed faces, "And besides, you've had ten years to get a room."

Harry lets out a short laugh, shaking his head in spite of himself, putting an arm around you and pressing a light kiss to your forehead.

"Think fast," he says suddenly, tossing you your car keys, "Come on," he grins at you wolfishly, dragging you by the hand towards the exit.

"Hey, you know, when I said get a room, I didn't mean it quite so literally," Jack calls after you, mumbling fragmented sentences that sound an awful lot like "cavemen" and "paperwork" and "unreliable", although he's soon pulled back into the lab by the scruff of his collar, by none other than Leo, who clears his throat as you reach the end of the corridor.

You and Harry turn back simultaneously, a lazy smile adorning both your faces.

"Nikki, paperwork?" Leo says pointedly, gesturing back to the lab.

"I need a cup of coffee," Harry replies for you, gesturing in the opposite direction, and you smile at Leo as innocently as you can muster, in a bid to win his favour, as if seeking permission from a parent to continue dating your boyfriend. The parallels are uncanny.

"Oh, fine," Leo tuts, rolling his eyes, walking back into the lab, "About bloody time."

* * *

As you reach the car, you walk round to the drivers' side, only to find that Harry has followed you there, as your front is pressed against the car door, your back feeling the heat emanating from him behind you, his warm breath ticking the nape of your neck.

"I thought we were getting a coffee," you giggle, turning around to find that you're effectively trapped between the car door and Harry.

"We are. I was just about to open the car door for you, because as you know, I am nothing if not mature and-"

"Magnanimous?" you finish his sentence.

"Precisely," he sighs, flicking your nose as punishment for interrupting him, "But then, here you are, mind in the gutter, and you just completely ruin all of my chivalry-mmmph-"

You silence him with a kiss, shutting him up rather quickly, as his hands find your waist. However, you pull away quickly (quicker than you'd like), whispering, "Get in," as huskily as you can manage.

As your actions mirror each other again, the simultaneous shutting of the car door, the synchronised seatbelt fastening, it's not really that surprising how quickly you can fall into a pattern again. However, despite the pattern, the normality in getting into a car with Harry, an awkwardness has built up so gradually, you didn't even notice it until you got into the enclosed space of your car, and now, there seemingly isn't enough room for it.

You turn the key, your left hand reaching for the clutch, but Harry takes it upon himself to rest his hand atop yours.

"Wait," he stops you, pausing, not for effect, but as if he is struggling with what he is about to say, as if waging an internal battle that he's not entirely sure he can win, "Ask me."

"Ask you what?" you reply, confused, and he smiles as if your answer was so predictable. Which in all fairness, it was.

"The question you wouldn't ask me two years ago," he says stoically, his eyes not leaving yours for a second, not even to blink.

"Can I have my stapler back?" you ask, needing time to think, to read his expression, to check what he's asking you. To check that he's really asking what you think, and that you haven't just deluded yourself for the past ten minutes. Well, for the past ten years.

"Not that question," he murmurs, not even smiling at your joke, his face more serious than you've ever seen, "The other one."

You hesitate momentarily, taking a deep breath, knowing your next words have the potential to change everything.

"Stay," you breathe, one solitary syllable that carries more emotion than any 'I love you' could ever say, more emotion than the single tear that falls unbidden down your cheek, more emotion than his hand, which is currently clasping yours, holding on for dear life. Holding on for you.

"Always," he replies with astonishing clarity, although his next words are incoherent, muffled by his lips against yours. But it doesn't matter what his next words are. You don't need to hear them. You already know.

Because he's here.

He's staying.

Always.

*PAGE BREAK*

**First, can I just say, this is my baby. I've been fussing over it for the last month or so, but I'm actually finished now. I think. **

**Thanks to everyone who keeps reviewing my other stories – and please leave a review! It means so much to me :) **

**Em xxx**


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